


an echo of old glory

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Communication, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Witchers, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), and it's eskel, and just wants to get laid honestly, because at least one of the witchers can voice their feelings, because it's bad!, can't blame him, geralt's new armor, he's done with everybody's shit, silver fox jaskier, teen for mild sexual language!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: six years after the mountain, geralt and jaskier reunite. unfortunately, geralt's gotten some rather awful armor, and jaskier has things to say.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 202





	an echo of old glory

Geralt’s got new armor.

It’s the first thing Jaskier notices. Six years’ separation and the first thing he notices is Geralt’s fucking armor. It’d be pathetic if the armor wasn’t so... _ un-Geralt _ . It had a distinct air of Yennefer, in fact. Those shoulder plates would serve no functional purpose, not to mention the leather over-plate  _ molded in the shape of abs.  _ Hideous, not to mention cumbersome and oh, yeah, barely functional. That plate wouldn’t stop an arrow any better than Geralt’s actual ab structure- not that he was thinking about that, thank you very much. It required a whole other layer atop the normal leather cuirass and, if he was honest, must be frankly awful to put on and take off alone.

Anyway.

It’s been six years. It’s winter, and Jaskier the bard has been granted access to Kaer Morhen by a  _ very _ agreeable witcher, by name of Eskel. Something in the back of his mind knew Geralt would be there, possibly with the princess and even the mage. Eskel, damn him, had a rather… persuasive mouth, and Jaskier found himself halfway up the mountain before the niggling in the back of his brain turned into full-blown panic. He didn’t stop, of course, because two decades of traveling with Geralt taught him quite enough about the correlation between wasting time and getting killed. 

But now he’s at the gates of the keep-crumblier than he expected-faced with a teenage girl, a witcher in the form of ginger, a witcher in the form of silver fox, and a witcher in the very familiar form of Geralt. Wearing the most ridiculous armor he’s  _ ever _ seen. So, naturally, he does what any man faced with the former (?) love of his life does in a stressful, slightly comedic situation.

He laughs. Until tears stream out of his eyes, smacking against the frozen dirt beneath his feet. He feels Eskel’s hand on his back, registers the way he must look to these judgmental few. Cold, dirty, and utterly fucking insane. He straightens eventually, careful not to shift Eskel’s hand, and smiles at them through the remains of his tears. 

“Witchers, Geralt, Princess. Lovely to see and meet you all. Geralt, that armor is absolutely  _ perfect _ .”

And with that he saunters into the courtyard, tossing one last glance over his shoulder to find Eskel and the ginger witcher positively  _ beaming _ as Geralt’s brow furrows into oblivion. There’s a quick patter of footsteps, and then the princess is beside him, keeping step easily despite their height difference. She’s wary, shooting glances around them and occasionally up at him. Not quite accustomed to the (relative) safety of living with four witchers, Jaskier assumes. He waits, allows her to study him. She sees more than people realize, he thinks. 

“You’re Jaskier.”

“I am, princess.”

“You came with Eskel.”

“I did.”

“Geralt gets all quiet when Lambert mentions you.”

“Well, princess, we didn’t exactly leave each other in a good place. I trust you’ve been keeping him busy in my stead?”

She smiles, a thin, wan thing that reminds him all too well the girl is only 17. _ Melitele, has she already been on the Path? _

“I’m not allowed to go with him all the time. Usually Lambert just takes me around Kaedwen, staying local, keeping close.” It’s scripted, something so incredibly Geralt that it makes Jaskier’s chest clench, just a little. He grins back at her, knocking his elbow gently into hers.

“Well, I hope you fill his winters with righteous hell.”

By then the rest of the group had caught up, Eskel and the ginger one, who must be Lambert, chattering away as the older witcher and Geralt murmured. So not all witchers are cranky, emotionally constipated bastards. Just the one he’d wasted twenty-two goddess-damned years of his life on. He’s not bitter, really. Six years of mourning is far too much; he’d only moped for two before drinking himself into oblivion and coming out the other side kicking. Literally. Things were getting rougher on the Continent, and without a witcher by your side, well. Suffice to say he’d gotten good enough with a knife to attract another.

The aforementioned  _ another _ slid up on his left, draping an arm over Jaskier’s shoulders. That was one of the things that had so shocked him about Eskel; where Geralt was taciturn and touch-averse on the best days, Eskel consistently maintained at least one point of contact. A hand on his back, a knee pressed to his under the table, a cock-

You get the idea.

And oh, can’t he just  _ feel _ Geralt’s eyes burning a hole in his doublet. That’s half the reason Eskel did it, he expects. Not out of jealousy, or any particular need, but to show Geralt that he’d won. Jaskier snorts softly, as the idea of being a prize presents itself in all its ridiculousness. He will  _ not _ be passed around the keep like a mare this winter, Melitele protect him. He’s shaken from his, ah, reverie by Eskel ushering him through the massive oak doors and holy fuck the  _ size _ of this place.

It’s decrepit, yes, but who can fucking blame them? There’s an echo of old glory in the place, one that nearly brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes. Call him a hopeless romantic, but fuck, there’s some beautiful shit out in the world. He dabs lightly at his eyes, grinning as Lambert chuckles.

“Damn, bard, it’s just a heap of rock.”

“Mmm, eloquent. I’d prefer an ageing homage to the Continent of yore, but. Whatever suits you best, red.”

Jaskier continues deeper into the foyer, Ciri reappearing at his side to guide him to where he assumes the rooms are. Behind him he hears a low whistle of appreciation (Lambert), a chuckle (Eskel), and a low, pissed-off sounding  _ hmm _ that can only have come from Geralt.

Oh, he’s in for a fucking winter. 

Ciri leads him deep into the monolithic structure, until they’re quite literally inside the mountain. It’s by no means a smooth trip; the ancient floor is worn slick in some places and odd bumps crop up in others, but the princess never falters as Jaskier attempts to keep what remains of his dignity. They skirt cracked columns and the odd lantern for what feels like the better part of an hour before Ciri suddenly veers left, throwing open a door that Jaskier feels certain he will never find without assistance. 

“Here you are. Vesemir washed the sheets this morning, so they shouldn’t be too dusty. There’s a washbasin in the corner; it’s cold water unless you want to call one of them to heat it up for you. Firewood, fireplace, dresser, bed, table.”

She points out the features of the room so routinely that she’s either been preparing for his arrival, or every single room in the keep is the same. Maybe both. There’s a vase of flowers on the desk, and Jaskier smiles as he takes in the late-fall blossoms.

“Thank you, princess. This will do quite nicely, except I fear I may never find my way back to the main hall.”  
Ciri grins, more earnestly than before. 

“It took me six months to figure it out, but don’t worry. Count the lanterns. Six lanterns, a left, four more, then a right, seven and another left and you’re in the dining hall.”

Six left, four right, seven left, food. Perfect.

“Eskel is two doors down, Lambert’s three. Vesemir sleeps in another wing, and mine and Geralt’s rooms are down the first hall to the left.”

“Six torches?”

“Six torches,” she nods, and leaves Jaskier to decompress. He hears the clatter of Eskel opening up his room, and though he wants a bath, the sheer fucking  _ weight _ of the day is finally collapsing in on him. So he slides off his muddy doublet and trousers, throwing them in the washbasin on his way to the bed. His undershirt comes off too, dropped unceremoniously on the floor with his underclothes. The room is already dark, save the last strains of sunlight filtering through the window that somehow exists, and the sheets are cool and smell of fresh air. If he cries, that’s his business. Tomorrow can be for brave faces; tonight is for wounds not quite sealed.

He wakes the next morning to bright sunlight and a knock at his door. It’s Eskel, dressed more comfortably than Jaskier’s ever seen him. The fabric is soft on his face when Eskel lays down beside him, and Melitele fuck him, he’s too good. He’s too good because Jaskier is pretty sure he’s still in love with Geralt, and Eskel doesn’t deserve this. They weren’t ever serious, really. Just a fuck here and there, some cuddling. Providing each other the intimacy they both needed. 

“You still love him, don’t you?”

And it’s early in the morning, and he’s tired, and Eskel’s holding him, and it just slips out.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

Eskel doesn’t leave. Just laughs, slides further under the sheets. 

“I fuckin’ figured. Lambert says he had to hide the White Gull because that morose fuck would get so drunk he  _ couldn’t  _ shut up and Jaskier, I love you, but if Lambert hears about  _ the coast _ one more time I think he’ll jump off the mountain.”

Oh, okay. So leaving someone doesn’t have to be pain and heartbreak and anger. It can be quiet and good, and Eskel gets to stay in his life. Jaskier laughs, then, laughs til his sides ache. Because  _ fuck _ , maybe Geralt feels it too.

“Okay, goddess, okay. Eskel. I need to get dressed, shit. We need to eat.  _ I _ need to eat, at the very least.”

They wind their way to the dining hall, silent but companionable. Eskel brought some of his more comfortable clothes for Jaskier; the pants didn’t fit, though, so he’s currently in the loosest pair of pants he owns and one of Eskel’s stretched-out sleep shirts. He feels disheveled, but when they walk into the dining hall to find that Lambert hasn’t even bothered with a shirt, well. Suffice to say he’s by no means underdressed. The witchers’ armor hangs on dummies at one end of the hall, and Geralt’s fucking ab armor stands out stark as day from the rest.

Jaskier yawns as he seats himself, Eskel sliding a bowl into his hand as the other reaches for the porridge ladle. He notices Geralt notice, and flicks his eyes up as he deftly fills his bowl.

If by deftly he means burns his hand on the scorching hot ladle, that is. 

“ _ Fuck _ you all and your dead fucking witcher hands,  _ ouch. _ Don’t you dare laugh, Geralt, you couldn’t feel hot water if it was boiling you alive.”

He pouts as Geralt suppresses a grin,  _ hmm _ ing into a (probably actually boiling) spoonful of oatmeal. They eventually settle, Vesemir (the older-looking one) entering last and grabbing the ladle with no issues. Like he’d said: fuck them. 

“So, brother. Which leatherworker made  _ that? _ ” And Jaskier doesn’t even have to look up to know Eskel is pointing at the leather monstrosity across the room. Lambert looks up, though, and grins as he registers Geralt’s expression. Somewhere between exasperated and genuinely annoyed, if Jaskier had to guess. 

“Melitele, Eskel, I know! He showed up in that and I thought Vesemir was about to turn him away.”

“Sorry, Geralt, but it really does look a bit like…” Ciri starts, and Jaskier knows precisely where she’s going.

“Like a really bad cheese grater,” he finishes, and the wolves around him explode into laughter. Geralt cracks a smile, more out of exhaustion than amusement, but it widens slightly when he catches Jaskier’s eye.  _ Oh _ . The porridge does a somersault in his stomach, and god damn the witcher for  _ still _ making him feel like a teenager adrift in Posada. 

“A fucking washing board,” Lambert chokes out, and the table dissolves into hysterics once more. Jaskier falls back into Eskels lap, and when he straightens up again Geralt’s half-smile is gone.  _ Right _ .  _ That.  _

They finish the meal with lighter conversation, though Jaskier catches the glances Lambert and Eskel throw at each other. Less romantic, more  _ goddess above get us out of here _ . Vesemir and Ciri excuse themselves to go train, and Lambert nearly immediately grabs Eskel and mutters something about securing the perimeter. 

“Guess we’re stuck with dishes,” he tries, but Geralt merely  _ hmm _ s and starts grabbing bowls. Fucking… of course.  _ Of course _ stupid Geralt is gonna be an ass about this, because why wouldn’t he. Why wouldn’t he have moved on, accepted that Jaskier is his own person who can stick his cock where he damn well pleases? No, nuh-uh. Not happening today. 

And apparently he’s put on some muscle in the past twenty-eight years, because the ease with which he spins Geralt around and pins him against the wall is surprising enough to almost make him back up. 

Almost.

He doesn’t, though, because Geralt’s finally looking at him like he’s a goddamn person, with perhaps more than a little weight in his gaze. Jaskier blinks. It’s  _ far  _ too easy to get lost in the swirling amber, Melitele above. No, fuck, wait. He’s angry right now.

“You’re going to listen to me, Geralt. I have spent twenty-eight years of my life loving you. No, wait until I’m done. I am  _ forty-six _ . Who I choose to sleep with? My choice. I’d prefer it to be you, obviously, but if you’re going to shove your head so far up your own ass you bite your own tongue every time Eskel so much as touches my shoulder, that’s gonna be a fucking problem, isn’t it? It’s time to witcher the  _ fuck _ up and make a decision. Because if you don’t, it’s going to be a rough winter for all of us.”

He’s shaking, he realizes. Six years worth of minorly repressed emotion come spilling out all at once in a tirade that he quite frankly can’t believe he’s still capable of. Geralt’s somehow relaxed under his arm, pliant as Jaskier presses, just a little, into his windpipe. Trusting, and that one makes him back up. 

“Fuck, Geralt, I-”

Geralt only grabs his wrists, tugging him flush against his body where it rests against the wall. Holds Jaskier as he sags, adrenaline crashing almost as fast as it rose. The witcher smelled like… pepper, and sage. And onions, still, after all this time. Destiny and onions. Jaskier chuckles into Geralt’s neck, as the other man continues rubbing circles on his back. Geralt’s softened, he realizes. Ciri softened him, to the point where he’s capable of  _ soothing _ . Melitele, if you’d told Jaskier of twenty years ago… he’d’ve laughed. 

Jaskier of now, well. He kisses Geralt, hard. Crushes nearly thirty years of angst and pining and what-have-you into the other man’s mouth, and shockingly, feels it reciprocated. Geralt’s hands start to wander, sliding under Eskel’s too-big sleep shirt. Fuck, he’s just vaguely perfect, isn’t he?

Jaskier breaks away, panting. Tips his forehead against Geralt’s, because he can now. And then  _ fucking Eskel _ laughs, from the doorway to the kitchen.

“At least have the decency to return my shirt before you fuck Geralt in it, bard! Melitele, kids these days.”

Eskel gets his shirt back.

Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> STATIC BACK BABIES  
> IM ALIVE!!!  
> i have. so many wips. including one where jaskier may or may not be in the strawberry dress, because that was a thing when i started writing that wip.  
> as always, i hope you enjoyed and come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/), where i can most often be found screaming about joey batey <3  
> (the idea for this totally came from an inside joke mine and [oddconstellation's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts) friends had years ago, about being able to grate cheese on a friend's abs. which you cannot do on geralt's sad, sad new armor)


End file.
